TO TAME THE BRUTAL LYCAN BEAST-Chapter 20: OF MALICE AND FURY

VALORIA WILDEROSE

Ah. So that’s what this is about. The rumor crafted to make me a target.

"How dare you soil the name of His Majesty by attaching yours to it!" another girl practically screams, her face flushed red.

All of these women glare at me with bloody murder—all for one singular man who doesn’t even see them as anything more than toys to pass his time, pawns in his game to torment me.

Idiots easily manipulated by their obvious desire.

"That rumor isn’t true."

"Well, of course it isn’t. Did you think anyone would believe someone like you could ever win His Majesty’s attention?" Alice taunts.

I take a deep breath and exhale.

"T-Then w-why am I—I here? Why a-are you w-w-wasting your t-time on me if you kn-know it’s j-just a lie?"

"Because things like you never know their place. They dream of being free of the shackles they’re born with, so they need to be reminded, over and over again, never to overstep."

It’s the same words used with me—the same definition my family has attached to me, repeated over and over again, that has made me wonder if maybe it really is true.

But even if it’s true... even if someone like me can never hope to be as good as everyone else, I am still infuriated and angry at the world.

And that’s why I will stop at nothing to watch it burn.

"Are you d-done?" The adrenaline in my blood spikes, fueling the defiance in me. I glare back just as viciously.

"You bitch," Alice fumes at my response.

She rises, kicking her chair back, stomping toward me, and grabs my hair, pulling hard.

I scream in pain, forcing me to relive another memory of Marcella’s torment—the times she pulled at my hair when she couldn’t come up with anything hurtful enough to say and resorted to violence.

The grip tightens, yanking my head back until my neck strains and tears prick my eyes. For a moment, I’m not here anymore. I’m back home, cowering in a corner while my sisters take turns making my life a living hell.

It’s always the same. No matter where I go, no matter how far I run, there’s always someone waiting to remind me of my place.

I struggle against her, but she doesn’t let up, determined to hurt me, until some maid pulls her off me reluctantly.

"Ladies, please..." My inviter interrupts, rising from her seat and clapping her hands together to draw attention back toward her. "His Majesty’s favored concubine is speaking. Let’s hear what else she has to say."

She gestures toward me again, giving me the chance to speak.

I catch my breath, holding her gaze that mocks me beneath that smile.

"I didn’t start the rumor, but I’m sure none of you will believe me. You already decided to torment me, but you just needed a reason to do it so you can all sleep well at night."

"Of course, dear; we’re the ones who started the rumor, ’cause you’re so important that we can’t even sleep at night," she jokes sarcastically.

Her group of blood-sucking vultures joins her, laughing at me. I can feel their hostility, almost as choking as the king’s himself—deadly and potent like poison.

Just as he had planned, they find me revolting. I’m as impressed as I am sick of him and everyone else under his spell.

"This is just a warning, Valoria," she speaks again, her sweet, gentle persona turning serious and cold, revealing a fraction of her true nature. "Stay in your lane. Don’t you dare covet His Majesty’s attention when you are nothing." She warns.

A switch flips with my growing exhaustion from being taunted over simply existing, awakening a coldness inside me.

"There’s a r-rumor that there’s a v-vile m-monster sleeping in the cas-stle, brainwashing his conc-cubines, turning t-them into hor-rrible, monstrous, flesh-eating zombies just like him," I start off, meeting her eyes without flinching. "T-Turns out s-some rum-mors are true af-after all."

The laughter dies instantly. Silence blankets the garden like a funeral shroud, and every pair of eyes locks onto me with pure, unfiltered hatred.

She looks at me coldly for a moment before rising from her seat.

In the midst of chilling silence, she steps out of her place, walking toward me until we’re face to face—one step away from each other.

She watches me for a moment, then raises her hand high, ready to strike me. I flinch, turning my face away, bracing for the impact that never connects, until she chuckles again.

My eyes fly open, and I look at her. Rather than strike, her hands are down—slowly clapping, a one-person applause.

"I get it." Her head tilts to the side. "Acting tough while stuttering like a fool; you still don’t understand where you stand, do you? Let me explain this in a way you understand."

It takes one simple hand gesture for her maids to step forward again like vicious animals, grabbing me from both sides suddenly.

I struggle on instinct, but the others hanging around step forward, ripping my clothes off me like paper until I’m bare, clutching my partially naked body against the cold wind.

The humiliation burns worse than any physical wound. I wrap my arms around myself, shaking, exposed and vulnerable in front of women who look at me like I’m less than dirt beneath their polished heels.

And then the beating begins.

A blow to my gut forces me onto my knees, then a knee to my chin as I collapse to the ground.

I’m battered and bruised from all angles, forced to shield myself with limbs that barely cover my vital parts from being hurt.

Each strike feels personal—fueled by jealousy, by insecurity, by the desperate need to prove themselves worthy of a man who will never love any of them. They take out all their frustrations on me, the easy target, the one who can’t fight back.

It goes on for so long that I bite my lips to hold back my tears, refusing to cry or give up, holding on silently until they’re finally interrupted.

"What is the meaning of this?!" A sharp, new voice cuts right into the echoed taunting of the women in the background.

The kicking comes to a sudden halt, and I can finally catch my breath.

The ringing in my ears and the fading of my consciousness make it almost impossible to remain aware of my surroundings.

But I look up at whoever she is, holding her face in view.